While the books I read have grown thicker and the selection broader, my love for good stories remains. But lately, I've been reading without enjoyment. Even worse, I was quitting on books. I never quit on books. If I read the first chapter, I stick it out to the end, even if I don't relate to the main character or totally believe the plot. I have too much respect for stories to not follow them to the last page.
So what happened to my story-loving heart?
I became a writer. Writers read books differently. We study them. We analyze and criticize, mentally edit, note the clever plot twists and lovely passages. If it's a masterpiece, we mourn our lack of ability to ever write such a thing. Maybe it's possible to shut off the writer's brain while you read, but I haven't learned it. Still, I was determined to rediscover the joy of reading. I scoured lists, tried book after book, read outside my favorites genres. Nothing worked, and it was starting to depress me.
Then two weeks ago my esteemed writing peer Augusta Scattergood passed me a YA book to read. I took it with no enthusiasm. It was contemporary, not my favorite genre. I had two other books on my bedside table, one fiction, one nonfiction. But I opened the new book. Here's the beginning of Jenny Downham's Unbecoming:
"It was like an alien had landed. Really, it was that weird. Like an ancient creature from another planet had crashed into Katie's day."
That's seventeen-year-old Katie, who until this moment has been trying to live up to her mother's ideal: good student, good daughter, good sister to her emotionally challenged brother. Now, she's sitting next to a grandmother she's never met, listening to her mother desperately try to convince a hospital social worker the old woman can't come home with them. Katie observes:
"The old woman just sat there, eyes shut now. She wasn't asleep though--you could tell by the tip of her chin. Maybe it was a trick? Maybe she wanted them to think she was napping, so she could scarper when no one was looking? Her boyfriend was dead, the doctors thought she was too vulnerable to go home, and her daughter didn't want her. Why not escape and start a new life somewhere else?"
And just like that, I was there, sitting with that demented old woman, feeling Katie's confusion, curiosity and compassion. In the space of a page, I cared about them. I read the next page and the next several chapters, without thinking about who was writing or how they accomplished this incredible story. I didn't stop to study sentence structure or plot or character. For the first time in a year, I was enjoying a book.
Thank you, Jenny Downham. Your beautiful book renewed my faith in stories and reminded me why I write. But best of all, you restored my joy in reading.
* Note to readers: If you'd like to know more about Unbecoming, here's my review on Amazon. Which reminds me, authors appreciate reviews, even the critical parts, as long as the criticism is presented with respect. Your reviews have an impact. They can bolster writers' belief in their ability and help them tell better stories. But mean-spirited reviews are toxic. They poison the venues they appear on and bruise writers' hearts. So before you post negativity, think how you'd feel if someone wrote the same about your work.